


Gunshots and Glitter.

by goingbadly



Series: En Masque [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Car Sex, Clubbing, Disguise, Dom Sebastian, Gay Bar, Jim from IT, M/M, POV Sebastian Moran, PWP, Playing Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 01:11:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2409608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingbadly/pseuds/goingbadly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim plays gay for Sebastian. /Very/ Gay. Minor warnings for blood/injury (not sex related). Basically PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gunshots and Glitter.

**Author's Note:**

> [Cassiuswuff](http://cassiuswuff.tumblr.com) on tumblr asked for a continuation of "A Bit of A Domestic," based on that one line where Sebastian mentions appreciating Jim-From-IT as a faggy little peacock. Stands on its own.

Sebastian studies Jim narrowly over his coffee. Living with Jim’s a lot like living on the edge of Tornado Alley; you learn to watch the small cues in his behavior, waiting for the storm. Currently, Jim’s humming tunelessly to himself by the toaster, bouncing his weight back and forth on his toes. He’s got a knife held in one hand and the butter tray in the other, hovering over his toast like a nervous bird of prey.

“Got a lot of work today?” Sebastian asks cautiously, feeling him out.

“Mm.” Jim twists to glance over his shoulder at Sebastian, eyes soft and heavy-lidded. He flashes a dopey, pleased little smile that Seb might almost believe, if he didn’t know Jim.

Sebastian frowns. “Well?”

“Ahh… whatever you want to do, then?” Jim asks brightly. He bounces again to punctuate the words, weight going right-left-right, the muscles in his arms pulling at his too-tight grey shirt. Seb gives him another narrow look. Jim hasn’t put on trousers, yet, but the t-shirt and smile’s enough to place the mask he’s wearing.

Sebastian groans. “Jim-from-IT. _Really?_ ” _Christ, it’s early in the morning for this._ Sebastian sighs and takes a sip of his coffee. “I thought we were done with him when Molly broke up with you.”

Still holding the butter-knife – a sentence that really _shouldn’t_ be threatening – Jim jumps over to the table in two quick strides. The movement is so fast he almost blurs. Sebastian’s still halfway through setting his coffee cup down when Jim’s cold fingers wrap in his hair. There’s a painful twist and then Jim yanks his head back – _all_ the way back, until Sebastian’s throat is bared, tendons painfully tight, and he thinks his chair is going to topple over.

“How about you be a good boy and _play along,_ ” Jim hisses against Sebastian’s ear, “Or I’ll find someone _else_ to fuck me tonight.”

He throws Seb’s head forward, and Sebastian can’t help a grunt as his neck snaps. Jim clicks his tongue in mild disapproval and saunters back over to the toaster, where the iron filaments have gone red-white with heat. Sebastian braces himself against the table and grits his teeth. He wants to yell, but Jim is back in character and it no longer seems fair. The toaster pops and Jim-from-IT swings the butter knife idly through the air, carving out non-threatening spirals in front of him.

 _Harmless little poof._ Sebastian takes another long pull of his coffee, letting it burn his throat.

“Was thinking we might go out dancing tonight, yeah?” Jim says, scraping his knife over the toast. He swings his hips in a figure-eight, just this side of suggestive, feeling an inaudible rhythm on the air. “Have some fun. Pick you up after work?”

He sounds nauseatingly domestic. The steam from Sebastian’s coffee trails up into the air, little wisps like escaping ghosts. When Jim stretches to grab a plate from the top cupboard, Seb can see every line of his ass like it’s been painted onto his tiny pants. Green, of course, with a faint fuck-me sheen.

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Whatever you say.”

Jim-from-IT gives Seb a candy-sweet smile. “Was hoping you’d say that,” he drones. He pads back to the table with toast; a transparent, dopey expression on his face. It’s not fooling Sebastian, of course, but that’s part of Jim’s game. Seb grits his teeth. He can already feel his nerves starting to grate on the back of his mind, a constant _don’t-relax_ whisper like fingernails over a blackboard. That’s Jim’s game too, of course. He takes a bite of his toast and smiles serenely up at Sebastian. “Shouldn’t you get going, dear? Not to rush you, or anything. Just I’d hoped you’d be done by nine…”

Sebastian sighs and drains the rest of his coffee. “I assume you’ve texted me the job?”

Jim-from-IT blinks his wide eyes harmlessly. “Em… Isn’t that how it usually works?”

***

Jim’s got a fucked-up sense of humour.

Sebastian curses and throws himself forward under the factory’s assembly line as the men he’s supposed to be dealing with open fire. His leg opens up in the same heartbeat: a massive electric shock of pain spiralling up his thigh to his brain, white-hot and obliterating.

 _I’ve been shot,_ Seb thinks, stupidly, obviously. Then he hits the ground, and he doesn’t get up.

His leg is on fire. Knee-cap to hip. If it’s there. If it exists. Sebastian’s not sure, because there isn’t anything left; no flesh, no sensation, nothing except the all-consuming scream of his nerves. Sebastian’s breath catches raggedly in his teeth, not reaching his brain. He can’t breathe. Can’t think. A helpless sound escapes from the back of his throat; not quite a scream, although there’s not much difference. Around him, the factory machinery darkens. The world threatens to black out entirely. Sebastian’s eyes squeeze shut and he takes a breath, forcing it through lungs that want to shut down entirely in shock. His muscles twitch and spasm, spine cracking as he writhes on the floor. Dimly, he can feel both feet kicking helplessly at the dirt.

It’s the only reason Sebastian knows his leg hasn’t been amputated entirely.

He wastes precious moments curling into fetal position, grabbing uselessly at the gaping slash opened in his thigh, just to reassure himself it’s only a graze. His hand is instantly sticky with blood, liquid clotting over his palm and fingers. Only a scratch, though. Only the comet-trail of a bullet. With each breath pain snags inwards around Seb’s brain, a looming darkness that threatens to pull him under completely. _Do it and you’re dead,_ Seb tells himself furiously. His fingers spasm on his thigh, tightening reflexively, digging in to the injury. Pain splashes through his brain again like solar-flares, grounding him. _Stay still and you’re dead,_ Seb screams at himself, _Enough whining, get up, get **up,** Moran, **MOVE –**_

Around him gunshots slam into the air, inexorable, one-after-another like the crack of thunder. It’s too loud to hear over. Too loud to think around. Sebastian slams his head back against the floor to focus himself, swallowing down curses. The second burst of pain narrows off the first, leaving him enough room to think. It brings him back, to the factory floor, to the problem at hand. He wastes precious seconds grabbing ear plugs out of his pocket and shoving them into his ears, but then again, if he went deaf Jim’d probably kill him. Underneath the conveyer belt the air is hot and close. Sebastian pants as he flips himself over, sets his jaw, and begins determinedly dragging himself on his stomach towards the exit.

He has to ignore the whizzing _pings_ as bullets come in a little too close for comfort; better ignore them then think about how small his chances really are. The plugs don’t do much to drown out the sound; they’re cheap, and to be fair, the noise is _uncomfortably_ close. The hired thugs haven’t figured out where Seb is yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Somewhere, Jim’s probably laughing his posh little ass off. Sebastian snarls, forces himself up on his elbows, and drags himself deeper under the conveyer. Above him, loose pieces of machinery swing and clank against each other, barely audible over the deafening fire.

“Fucker went under!” some brilliant soul finally realizes, “After him!”

Sebastian grits his teeth and tries to move faster. His left leg drags uselessly behind him. The fierce fiery slash of heat across his thigh throbs with each heavy pulse of his heart. He can feel the wet seep of blood working its way down his trouser-leg, leaving a slick smear over the floor behind him; not that it’s easy to distinguish from the rest of the muck. Sebastian’s deliberately not thinking about what exactly he’s dragging an open wound through. The air smells stingingly of chemical waste, and the dust on the floor’d probably test positive for weirder things than industrial run-off.

Sebastian shakes his head to clear it. _Not now. Think about it later – think about it when you’re through –_

“Down here!” someone shouts.

Sebastian twists in time to see a dirty face peering under the machinery; heavy eyebrows, big nose. Whoever is looking is Eastern-European, hired for his indiscriminate hands, stupid and cruel. Seb curses again, inaudible under the sound of the gunshots. Not the sort of face you yell _wait_ to.

The thug pulls back, his off-army boots visible for a minute before he crouches down to jam the barrel of his gun in Sebastian’s direction. Sebastian’s mouth nearly drops open. _No one could be that stupid –_

But Seb doesn’t bother to bet on it. He plants one foot on the floor – the uninjured leg – and uses it as leverage to shove himself behind a sorting machine. Just in time, too. The thug pulls the trigger, sending a thick stream of hot lead down the confined space beneath the conveyer belt. Bullets slam into the back of the sorting machine, denting massive craters in the metal. Sebastian thanks Christ for whoever decided on building these things out of inch-thick steel. It rings like a bell, but doesn’t give; eating up the automatic fire like it was designed for cover.

Which, of course, means ricochet. Seb’d feel bad for the poor thug who goes screaming backwards, eating his own rebounding shells. He _would_ feel bad, only brain is entirely full of noise; there’s no room for thought, no room for _anything_ but the deafening noise of lead-on-steel.

Seb’s not even entirely sure when the gunfire _stops_ ; even with the cheap plugs, his ears are ringing like a nailgun’s being fired directly into his eardrum, pounding against his brain. When he presses his fingers to his earlobe, they come away wet.

Sebastian grimaces, and checks his magazine. Not counting the round he’s got chambered, there’s three shots left in the pistol. It might be enough to get him out safe. Maybe. He hadn’t packed extra, thinking the job’d be easy – Jim-from-IT wanted to go dancing tonight, after all. _But of course he’d fucking give me this,_ Sebastian thinks, a low roil of anger turning in his stomach. _I’m going to kill the little freak._

Sebastian glances up. Above him, through the chinks in machinery, he can see the ceiling; the line of old-style factory lights regular and steady across it. The factory uses low, swinging electric bulbs, instead of fluorescent tubes. _And thank Christ twice, for whoever was too cheap to retrofit this place,_ Sebastian thinks fervently, and aims upwards.

***

Jim-from-IT has work gear and club gear. Work gear: Tight-t-shirt, fitted trousers, pants that scream _gay_ in a five mile radius.

Club gear: Currently making Sebastian forget he was ever shot.

Sebastian pulls the cheap ear plugs out of his ears and tosses them aside. Jim peels himself off the side of his Austin-Martin with a smile like a subtle sun, and weaves his way over the parking lot to Sebastian. Sebastian’s lips are too dry. He has to remind himself to breathe. Jim’s latex deep-vee is zippered up the front, and plastered to his skin. It can’t conceal a single bone of his ribs, and his tight black trousers aren’t doing much better. His whole body is on display, obvious and flashy. And _mouthwatering._ The trousers are laced at the front, straining over Jim’s cock, and Sebastian can just imagine how they’d spring free at the slightest touch. _His_ touch, he damn well hopes.

“Hey, handsome,” Jim-from-IT breathes, when he’s close enough that Sebastian can smell his expensive cologne. “You all done?” He’s got a dreamy, heavy-lidded look to his eyes that either spells _stoned_ or _fucked-out,_ and Sebastian can’t wait to find out which.

In the warehouse behind them someone is screaming, loud and furious, for backup. “I can be,” Sebastian tells Jim, “If you like.”

Jim’s smile widens, and he blinks his eyes in soft and dozy delight. “You’re sweet,” he says, mock-honest, “You know just how to treat a guy, has anybody told you?”

“Might have.”

Jim reaches out and walks his fingers up Sebastian’s chest. Seb can see glitter on his exposed breast-bone. Jim’s gone all-out, tonight. _God save me._ “I was thinking we could go dancing?”

The shouts behind them are getting louder. Jim steps forward, pressing himself against Sebastian’s chest like an invitation. Sebastian’s hands ball into fists at his sides. Shifting his weight puts intolerable pressure on his injured thigh. There’s a malicious glint slipping through the edge of Jim’s mask, around his eyes. They can’t stay here. As much as Jim is pushing himself into Sebastian’s –

Seb grits his teeth. “Jim,” he says, “Get in the car before someone else gets shot.”

Jim’s eyes widen. “Oh! Right – “ he stammers, “Y-yes. Of course. I, em, brought you some clothes, too…” He dances backwards, and slides over to the car, opening the passenger-side door. Sebastian has to consciously keep himself from lurching forward, body following instinctively after Jim’s heat.

“You’ll have to see if they fit,” Jim purrs. “Don’t worry. I won’t watch…”

Much to Seb’s amusement, he doesn’t.

***

After the gunfire the club’s music isn’t deafening, although it should be. Seb can practically feel the bass-beat throbbing over his skin. It’s just a matter of contrast, after all. After gunfire, everything seems quiet.

Sebastian hesitates by the door, unwilling to walk any further than he absolutely has to. His leg is already screaming protest, hot blood seeping through and making his trousers stick to his thigh. Without hesitating Jim leaves him behind, sliding through the crowd to the bar; weaving his way in-and-out of the throngs of people like a snake through water. Sebastian tries not to watch the way his hips move. Tries, and fails.

He’d go after Jim, but it’s all he can do to keep standing with the pulse-and-throb of blood in his thigh. Not to mention that the rest of his body isn’t much better. The bruise on his shoulder from where he hit the concrete floor refuses to be ignored, and he’s got dried blood in his hair from whatever-the-hell happened to his ears. His back is stiff. His arms and legs ache like he’s been doing marathons.

It doesn’t really matter, though. The pain. Seb’s had worse. And this might be worth it, anyways. Seb looks around to distract himself, trying to judge Jim’s mood by his choice of location. The lights of the club flicker and sway, bright neon pinks and greens against the blackness. It smells of sweat and cigarette smoke. The dance floor writhes like a single amorphous being, expanding and contracting on a hundred legs moving simultaneously. It’s noisy, chaotic; nearly animalistic in its sheer base physicality.

_Well if **that’s** how you’re feeling – _

Sebastian just hopes he can keep up.

Jim hasn’t reappeared yet, although the crowd around the bar is thick enough that Seb isn’t worried. Yet. He leans against the wall by the entrance and catalogues entrances, security, cameras. Possible exits. Possible threats. Anything to keep from thinking about his leg. The room is such a great noisy mess that he’s half-overwhelmed just trying to keep an _eye_ on security, but then, Jim probably planned on that.

There’s two men in front of Sebastian doing an awkward bump and grind, their hips jostling out of synch as they catch and lose the rhythm. The man in front is giggling, manicured hand pressed over his sticky pink lips as he pushes his ass theatrically backwards.

Seb rolls his eyes. On principle, he _hates_ gay bars.

Jim appears out of nowhere, bouncing gleefully up in front of Sebastian with two spindly glasses in his hand. Seb blinks, and eyes them suspiciously. Whatever Jim’s drinking, it’s brighter than the lights, and festooned with enough fruit to make Sebastian feel defensive about his masculinity.

“I didn’t know what you drink,” Jim says brightly, “So I just got two of mine. Next round’s on you, yeah?” He looks at Sebastian with all the helpless guile of a Labrador puppy, and Sebastian has to laugh.

“Alright, yeah,” Sebastian shouts over the music, still grinning, and takes his fruity drink from Jim. Their fingers brush over the glass, Jim’s hands cold from condensation in the humid darkness of the club. Jim flushes and looks away as if he hadn’t meant to do it. Sebastian can’t help but grin. Broadway lost out, when Jim Moriarty decided he was better suited to a life of crime.

“So what are we doing here?” Seb asks, swallowing down the ‘Boss’ at the last second.

Jim smiles, wide and excited. Christ, he almost looks human. “I thought we could dance,” he says innocently.

Sebastian thinks of his wounded leg and grits his teeth. Jim raises his eyebrows, the faintest slip for Sebastian’s benefit. _Not thinking of saying no, are you, Tiger? Not going to ruin my fun?_

Sebastian’s a fucking dead man. “Anything you like,” he tells Jim.

“Brilliant,” Jim replies. Sebastian knows him just well enough to catch the malice hanging around the edges of his smile.

***

Jim pulls Sebastian on to the dance floor, making his way toward something Sebastian can’t see in the crowd. Away from the relative safety of the bar, the air is so hot and thick with sweat it’s hard to breathe. The music pounds on the air like a living thing, like a great asthmatic cat breathing around them. Jim picks a spot on the dance floor by some mysterious gay-bar divination and yanks Sebastian to a halt.

Sebastian stumbles, cursing as it puts weight on his injured leg. Pain stabs up his thigh like a lightning bolt, undercutting his lungs. He could swear he sees Jim smile, but it’s so fleeting he might be wrong.

Jim turns, pressing his back flat against Sebastian’s chest. Around them couples are writhing, pulsing in-and-out of step with the beat. Sebastian feels awkward just _looking_ at them. There’s a woman in jeans over there doing something _truly odd_ with her hands –

Sebastian opens his mouth to say, _Christ, I can’t dance, what are you doing?_ Then Jim curves and rolls his hips against Sebastian, a neat little twist of movement that could be echoing the melody, or the way Sebastian’d fucked him last night. Either. Both. And just like that, Sebastian’s mind isn’t wandering anymore. He’s paying _rapt_ fucking attention. Jim’s hair gleams in the club lights as he rolls his hips again, dry-humping himself back against Sebastian. And – being Jim – he manages the perfect slide on the first go, pressing Seb’s cock against his entrance.

Sebastian bites the tip of his tongue until he tastes blood. Jim shoots a look back over his shoulder, trying for coy and not coming anywhere close. His eyes glitter, like the paint on his chest, like the single bead of saliva on his lip. He reaches up, twining his arms around Sebastian’s neck, and grinds back on him for all the world like Jim’s nothing more than a mindless twinky slut.

And Sebastian’s stomach hollows. And Sebastian’s mouth is a barren-fucking-desert.

Jim’s fingers tangle in the back of Sebastian’s hair, pulling gently on the sensitive strands. Not hard enough to hurt – that’s not Jim-from-IT’s game. Sebastian exhales slowly, not that it does much good as far as calming himself.

He can almost hear Jim frowning. _Play along now, Tiger._

It’s easy for Sebastian to find Jim’s rhythm once he starts; dancing might be new, but falling in to step with Jim is practically second nature. Sebastian ignores the screaming pain in his thigh; it’s not worth it, anymore. Not compared to the way Jim works his hips. The music’s loud and predictable, but the bass twines hot and promising around them, binding them close. They move on the floor together: pressed so tight Sebastian can feel each fluttering breath Jim takes, swelling his lungs. He can smell the salt of Jim’s skin, the plastic-wrap smell of latex. Seb’s hands smooth down Jim’s sides, feeling each bone of his ribs through his shirt down to the flat plane of Jim’s hips. Jim arches his spine, drawing himself out on display. Seb growls and digs his fingernails in, rewarded with a quiet moaning sound that Shadow-King Jim would probably rather die than admit to making. Seb grins. Lucky it’s Jim-from-IT, then. Underneath Seb’s hands, his skin is hot and slick with sweat. Seb bends his head down to mouth at Jim’s jugular, letting his teeth scrape over Jim’s Adam’s apple. Jim tastes of sweat and something else – something sweet, bubbly, like cotton-candy or caramel apples. Maybe it’s the glitter. Trust Jim to wear edible.

He certainly hasn’t gone _halfway_ with the gay thing, tonight. Sebastian sucks a bruise into Jim’s neck and Jim responds with another pornographic moan, grinding himself hard back against Sebastian’s cock. He has to raise up on his tip-toes to get the best angle. And he does, wanton and shameless. The first song ends and another begins. Jim doesn’t let off at all. He pulls Sebastian along with him, setting their pace, dancing in the silence without missing a step. Seb doesn’t need the music, anyways. Just the hundred subtle cues of how Jim wants him to move.

It’s quickly cutting off Sebastian’s supply of brain cells.

Jim tosses his head back when the bass kicks in a second time, eyes shut, mouth open, theatrical as a fucking beauty pageant. Sebastian can see bruises forming on his skin; dark against the shimmering glitter.

He thrusts his cock forward harder, hands on Jim’s hips pulling him into it. If the club was a little less dark, they’d be making a scene. Jim’s hands tighten into white-knuckled fists in Seb’s hair. “Oh _, Seb,_ ” he moans into Sebastian’s ear. His voice is breathy. His hips jerk under Sebastian’s hands, twitching like he’s on the edge of losing control. “Take me home, oh, _please._ ” He gives Sebastian’s hair one last twist, then one of his hands drops, grabbing Sebastian’s wrist. He yanks Sebastian’s hand forward. His grip is hard, and much too tight. Sebastian has just enough time to catch his breath, hearing the sound of his own snarl echo against Jim’s eardrum, then Jim presses Sebastian’s hand down over his crotch.

Behind the thin, tight fabric of his trousers Jim is rock-hard, _painful_ hard.

And he might as well be naked, for all his trousers are concealing it. Sebastian palms him through them, and he can _feel_ the pulse of blood through Jim’s cock as Jim moans. Sebastian grins. He fists his hand around Jim’s cock, still keeping the rhythm with his hips. It’s dark enough that nobody notices. Jim’s breath is ragged. Sebastian squeezes tight and strokes him, hard and vicious, just the way Jim likes it. It must be rough, with the fabric of his pants bunching under Sebastian’s fist. Jim doesn’t seem to care. He practically _squirms,_ whimpering under cover of the loud music _._ Sebastian feels the sound more than he hears it, the vibrations in Jim’s throat tense against his skin.

“Please,” Jim begs, twisting his head to mouth desperately at Sebastian’s ear as if he doesn’t have a coherent thought left in his head. It’s a hundred percent fake, but fuck if Sebastian’s blood doesn’t rush to his cock anyways. _Jesus Christ._ Jim, breathless and begging, fucking himself backwards against Sebastian’s cock in the middle of a crowded dance hall –

“Please, Seb, _please._ ”

“Car?” Seb manages, somehow, strangled in the back of his throat.

“Already outside,” Jim purrs, character slipping for a heartbeat. But then Sebastian grabs his wrist and hauls him towards the edge of the floor and Jim giggles, bright and harmless. No threat. No darkness. He’s Jim-from-IT again; ready, willing, and able.

***

The instant they’re in the back seat of Jim’s limo Sebastian has Jim slammed up against the tinted window, pinned by his wrists to the cold glass. At least it takes the weight off his injured leg. Jim giggles again, breathlessly, and leans forward eagerly. His lips are sticky, stained red by whatever that shit they’d been drinking earlier was. Seb catches them, kissing him hot and quick and filthy, licking the alcohol from his tongue.

Jim moans.

“…Sir?” The driver asks tentatively.

Sebastian kicks at the divider switch with his good leg. “Take the long way!” he yells, over the whirr of the wall going up between them. The car rumbles into motion, pulling smoothly away from the curb. Jim wiggles his hips underneath Sebastian, canting them up enough that his cock rubs against the hard line of Sebastian’s stomach.

“Oooh,” he breathes, all wide-eyed innocence, “Are you _sure_?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Sebastian asks him, leaning up to scrape his teeth over Jim’s throat.

Jim grins and wiggles himself down a little lower, pulling on Sebastian’s grip as if he expects Sebastian to let go. Sebastian closes his fists tight, letting the bones of Jim’s wrists grind in his hands. Underneath his fingers, Jim’s pulse jumps. Jim yelps, and yanks his head back to shoot a faintly hurt look at Sebastian.

“Hey,” he says chidingly, all drunken and dopey, “Let me go.”

“No.” Sebastian grins at him, knowing he’s showing too many teeth to be pleasant. Jim’s play-acting, anyways. He’s not upset. His pupils are flooded dark and from the way his lips are parted when he breathes, he doesn’t want Seb to let go at all. “Don’t think I will,” Sebastian continues, leaning down to bite him again. If it was Shadow-King Jim, he’d snarl. He’d twist in Sebastian’s grip and jam his knee up into Sebastian’s gut, he’d grab handfuls of Sebastian’s hair and hiss and spit and fight like a badger in a sack.

But this is Jim-from-IT. Faggy, bouncy, weak. And god, the way he melts under Sebastian’s mouth makes Sebastian’s heart stop.

Sebastian manhandles Jim’s arms down onto the seat, dragging Jim until he’s pinned underneath the weight of Sebastian’s body. _Thank Christ for spacious limos,_ Sebastian thinks. His thigh is aching, a steady, hot stream like a friction burn. Seb ignores it. Jim struggles, weak and ineffectual, and Sebastian overcomes him by brute force. The smell of sweat and cologne is heavy on the air, with an ominous under-thread of blood. Jim’s big trainers kick at the seats, squeaking off the leather. Sebastian ignores that, too. From the way Jim’s pulse thumps against Sebastian’s palms, that only turns Jim on.

Sebastian can deal with that. If Jim-from-IT’s got a thing for big, dumb and dominant –

“Keep your hands where they are,” Sebastian growls. Jim responds with a simpering little whimper that leaves Sebastian temporarily light-headed. All the blood left in his body blood goes to his cock at once, and he can’t help the involuntary jerk of his hips that grinds him forward against Jim. It makes his thigh light up in screaming painful sirens, but he’s rewarded with a low moan. Jim’s hands curl into fists as he thrusts back upwards and his cock stabs awkwardly against Sebastian’s stomach; too hard, at the wrong angle. Sebastian laughs, his breath ragged in his throat, and Jim echoes it; a little weaker. A little helplessly.

Sebastian lets go of Jim’s wrists and slides a bit lower on the seat, putting his good knee on the floor as he licks his way down Jim’s chest. The glitter is, apparently, edible. When he catches the zipper of Jim’s latex shirt in his teeth, Jim squirms; a tight wriggle of his hips. Sebastian pulls the zipper down in one long, smooth movement, the sound loud in the silent vehicle. At the bottom the limo goes over a bump and Seb’s chin brushes against Jim’s cock.

 _Well there’s an idea,_ Seb thinks, and lets his mouth trail lower; snagging the lacing of Jim’s trousers, next. When he gets the knot they practically spring open, Jim’s cock pushing up from under the thin fabric. Jim whimpers.

He also ignores Sebastian’s instructions. His hands fall to tangle in Sebastian’s hair, pulling insistently. Sebastian looks up. Jim stares back with wide, ruined eyes, the remnants of eyeliner smudged around his tear-ducts.

“Don’t tease me,” he chides Sebastian. His voice nearly catches on the words. A fire fans to life in Sebastian’s stomach, hot comfortable coals that make him ache for Jim. Jim’s mouth, maybe, the way his lips are unnaturally red –

“Me? This isn’t _me._ You’re the one teasing…” Sebastian says, instead of anything he’s thinking. There’s two loud thunks as Jim toes his shoes off and kicks them across the limo to hit the back of the passenger side seat. Sebastian grins. He works Jim’s trousers down, over his thighs, past his knees and tossed off into a corner of the limo. Jim’s cock falls on his stomach, leaving a sticky trail of pre-cum over his dark hair and flat muscle.

“I’m not – I’m not doing anything,” he sighs, tugging on Sebastian’s hair desperately. “Seb – “

“You’re a tease just for _existing,_ ” Sebastian tells him.

“I’m not a tease, I’m _not,_ ” Jim pleads, “I’ll put out, I swear, Sebastian, _please_ – “

Sebastian growls roughly and surges forward over Jim, slamming him back against the leather seats with a rough kiss that’s more teeth than tongue. Jim cries out – losing the character for a moment. Jim-from-IT couldn’t quite manage that raw, animal sound. Half anger, half begrudging submission. But it’s only surprise. The next moment he’s club-gay again, club-gay and helpless, pushing his hips uselessly against Sebastian’s in hopes of enough friction to stop him aching.

Sebastian rocks his hips down against Jim, and Jim pulls his hair like it’s a horse’s reins. Everywhere their bodies touch, it’s like fire. The snag-and-pull of Jim’s cock against his, separated only by the thin trousers Jim insisted Sebastian wear –

Sebastian can understand why some people get off on dry humping. He wants to fuck Jim like a heroin addict wants a fix pre-made in the needle. He doesn’t care that he got shot. He doesn’t care that he feels like he’s gone through a hamburger grinder. He _wants._

“And since _you’re_ teasing _me_ …” he growls against Jim’s lips, voice rough with pain, “ _You’re_ going to be the one doing all the work.” Jim moans helplessly, chasing the kiss, as if he’s gone mindless with lust. It does terrible things to Sebastian’s stomach. Not to mention his cock. He’s rock-hard now, and he might go _mad_ if Jim doesn’t have those lips wrapped around him within thirty seconds.

“ _You’re_ going to prep yourself,” Sebastian snarls to Jim (only half because he doesn’t know where Jim keeps the lube in this car), “And you’re going to blow me while you do it.” From the way Jim’s whole body shudders, he likes that idea. “Now I’m going to get off of you…” Sebastian continues, letting his hand trail down Jim’s side to his hip, “And you’re going to start. Do you understand?” Jim nods, exhaling shakily. Sebastian takes that as his cue. “Do you?” He grins and slides a hand between them, wrapping it around Jim’s cock. He fists it twice – just the way Jim likes it, hard from the start and just a little too rough.

Jim makes a sound like he’s dying. He clutches desperately at Sebastian. The grip in Sebastian’s hair isn’t enough. Jim has to dig his fingernails into Sebastian’s shoulder blades – not going for blood, but close enough – and arc all the way back off the seat to move his hips with Sebastian’s stroke. His back curves in one long line, only the back of his skull and his arse left on the seat.

“ _Sebastian,_ ” he breathes.

“Take that as a yes,” Sebastian replies mercilessly, and pulls off of him. He lurches in the moving limo, and for a heartbreaking second he has to put weight on his injured leg and he thinks he’s going to die. But somehow he makes it to the other side of the limo anyways, the pain just another dose of adrenaline sparking along his spine. Seb’s nearly high on the rush of blood through his veins. He tumbles down into the bank of seats with a relieved groan. When he pulls his shirt off, the air is hot enough for his skin to just barely prickle. It smells of blood. Seb kicks his shoes in the same direction as Jim’s trousers. His belt next. Jim’s rummaging in a secret compartment. He comes up with a bottle of lube, and Sebastian slips his trousers off his hips.

The impromptu bandage on his thigh is soaked red, crusted with blood and throbbing in pain. It doesn’t seem to matter. Not to Jim. And it certainly isn’t lessening _Sebastian’s_ arousal.

He can’t help giving himself a stroke, just to take the pressure off. Not that that helps, either. Not with Jim Moriarty crawling over the floor of the limo towards him, bottle of lube in one hand, eyes blown black as his pupil fills his iris. His pale skin is flushed, collarbones red against the white of his shoulders.

Sebastian groans. “What you do to me…” he tells Jim roughly.

Jim kneels between Sebastian’s knees, looking up with the slightest curve of a smile on one side of his mouth. But he’s Jim-from-IT, and Jim-from-IT wouldn’t have a come back to that. So he just knocks Sebastian’s hand aside, and wraps his fingers around the base of Sebastian’s shaft.

Jim’s fingers are always cold. The car ride’s enough to warm them - so it shouldn’t be a shock - but they’re also long, and unbelievably clever. As he circles Sebastian’s cock in his fingers Jim tenses them in quick succession, pressing just the right series of nerves. It’s unspeakably cruel of him. All the air goes out of Sebastian’s lungs at once. He feels like he’s been punched in the stomach; like there’s a great black hole opening inside of him. He can’t seem to get enough air. He wants more, and more, and _more._

And just seeing Jim like this, lips red and wet, one hand on Sebastian’s cock and the other forced back between his own legs – Sebastian’s cock twitches. _Do not,_ he tells himself firmly, shutting his eyes. _Do not, I repeat, do **not** come before you get to fuck him._

“It’s so _big,_ ” Jim breathes, porn dialogue, and _damn_ him for making it work. “Oooh, _Daddy._ ” He leans forward and his tongue flicks out, licking over Sebastian’s slit like he’s a fucking ice-cream cone. It feels like the crack of a whip. It feels like a line of flame. Then his mouth follows, closing around Sebastian’s shaft and sucking him down, all the way to the bottom. Without so much as a fucking pause. Sebastian draws a hissing breath of air, and tries hard not to lose himself completely. A muscle in his thigh twitches, jumping against his injury, and for a moment the pain of it centers him. But it doesn’t last long. Jim draws off slow and sucks Seb down again, his breath puffing against Sebastian’s skin at the base. It feels like dying. It feels like – oh, Christ, there isn’t a thing in the world it feels like. Sebastian’s going to go insane. His skin is hot, and getting hotter, the palms of his hands damp with sweat. He can’t _breathe._

Sebastian throws his head back against the seat and Jim sets up a slow, leisurely pace, leaving _plenty_ of room for his tongue to explore. That doesn’t help Sebastian much. He fights the urge to writhe. Closing his eyes makes it worse, focusing him on the rapidly growing pleasure in the pit of his stomach, but if he opens them –

There’s Jim, eyes squeezed shut, moaning around Sebastian’s cock while he fucks himself on what looks like three fingers. That’s hopeful, though. Three fingers looks good. It looks like _enough._

With an animal growl Sebastian grabs the back of Jim’s hair and wrenches Jim off his cock. Jim comes off panting, his eyes dazed and wet, his lips slick and reddened. Sebastian has to remember how to manually breathe. Jim moans, so quiet Sebastian almost misses it. His wrist flexes, driving his fingers deeper inside of him.

“ _Seb,”_ and that’s it. That fucking does it. Sebastian doesn’t care about the limo driver, swaying them around corners, he doesn’t care about his injury, he doesn’t care if the whole fucking world can see in.

Sebastian shoves Jim backwards onto the floor and Jim goes sprawling, helpless and awkward in the small space. He has to pull his lube-slick fingers out, trying to grab at the back of the seats for balance. His legs fall open, and Sebastian wastes just enough time to grab a fistful of lube before he forces himself between them. There’s a split second where Jim tries to push upwards, and then Sebastian has his wrists in one hand. The gash in Seb’s thigh is split open. Leaking blood. The air smells of it, harsh and metallic. Jim doesn’t stand a chance. Sebastian is bigger. Stronger. Already in the right position.

He might as well have Jim chained down.

Jim writhes and struggles as Sebastian slicks himself, but when Sebastian’s pressed at his entrance he tilts his hips upwards. Inviting it. Sebastian pauses, for a moment, savouring the heat of Jim’s skin on his own. Fighting the mindless urge that tells him, _Take Jim, take him **now,** leave him fucked out and screaming –_

A cold ankle wraps around the back of Sebastian’s thigh, pushing him closer. Pushing against his weakest spot, and isn’t that Jim in a nutshell. He looks up at Sebastian with his hair a mess, his eyes innocent and trusting. It’s as close to perfect a pretense as it can be. And Sebastian wants, irrepressibly, to _ruin_ it.

He doesn’t lean in to kiss Jim as he slams his hips forward, forcing his cock against Jim’s prostate. He holds back. He wants to _see._ Wants to watch the moment Jim loses everything, even his play-acting, to sheer desperate pleasure. It doesn’t quite work. The white heat that sparks through Sebastian’s brain as he pushes into Jim covers everything, even his vision, and for a moment he has to drop his head and pant. Some of it is exquisite enough to be pain. Some of it might actually _be_ pain, as blood trickles down his leg to the floor.

 _“Christ,_ Jim, _fuck,_ ” Sebastian says, unintelligently, but then, a large part of his brain’s already offline.

“Sebastian, _fuck me,_ please!”

Jim’s voice is a wreck. Broken, pleading, absolutely submissive. Sebastian feels a red surge of base, primal satisfaction, and slams his hips forward again. Jim cries out. Sebastian fucks him slow, hard, not trusting himself to last if he tries anything else. With each thrust Jim’s head knocks back against the limo floor, and the lights of London slide by outside; painting him yellow and red and green in turns.

Sebastian braces one of his hands above Jim’s shoulder and leans in to fix his teeth to Jim’s throat as he fucks him. He can feel each one of Jim’s moans, vibrating into his mouth. He can feel each shudder and jerk of Jim’s muscles, spasming with mindless pleasure underneath him. The slick slide of Jim’s body around his cock is so tight and hot and vivid Sebastian feels like he’s drowning in it, like he can’t keep his brain above water. His wounded thigh is doing nothing to slow the build of his climax.

He feels, dimly, Jim sliding a hand between them. He feels Jim’s fist work on his own cock, tight and frantic. Their skin is sticky with sweat, and Jim feels like a furnace underneath him; body heat high enough that his touch scorches Sebastian. His knuckles brush against Sebastian’s stomach on the top of each stroke, the bottom of each of Sebastian’s thrust. And the tip of his cock. There’s a thin string of pre-cum wet against Sebastian’s stomach, and Jim’s cock twitches whenever Sebastian hits his prostate.

If nothing else, Sebastian knows _exactly_ how to fuck Jim.

“ _Sebastian,_ ” Jim pants again, “Fuck, I’m going to – you’re going to make me – “

And, like that, inspiration strikes. “ _Ask permission,_ ” Sebastian growls in his ear. Jim makes a desperate, beseeching sound; one Seb’s never heard from him before. A _begging_ sound.

“ _Please,_ ” Jim whimpers, “ _Please,_ Sebastian, God, _please,_ let me come – “

And if that doesn’t send Sebastian over the edge, the tense spasm of Jim’s muscles does; or the sudden hot wetness that spatters onto Jim’s chest beneath him.

It’s all good enough that Sebastian, afterwards, can’t quite remember.

***

“So that’s what you’d do to me if you had the chance.” Jim muses, tilting his head in that odd, lizard-like way of his. He doesn’t look a thing like he did when they got in the car. Jim may be back in Jim-from-IT’s clubbing clothes, but they’re not twinky anymore; not flamboyant. Some trick of Jim’s posture or the lighting. Sebastian licks his lips. Jim’s dark eyes are hollowed, cold and utterly inhuman. His face is devoid of any trace of mercy.

“Didn’t I _just_ do it to you?” Sebastian asks, carefully. The car rumbles to a halt.

“Is that what you think happened?” Jim asks, his voice deliberately idle. “Well.” He gets out first and holds the door for Sebastian, expression thoughtful. “Then I think it’s _my_ turn.” Without another word he snaps his fingers, calling Sebastian to heel, and starts walking toward the door of the house. No bounce in his step now; no hesitation. It’s a sleek, self-confident stride. This is Shadow King Jim. This is Jim Moriarty, boogey-man of London’s underworld.

And it’s payback time.


End file.
